


Nationals

by Miggy



Category: Glee
Genre: Comedy, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-19
Updated: 2010-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miggy/pseuds/Miggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rules are different when you're on the road. Different and <i>weird.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Nationals

**Author's Note:**

> Having watched some cheerleading nationals before, I know that they're actually a much, much bigger deal than you'd think from the little snippet we saw on the screen. I started thinking about what it would be like for the Cheerios at their favorite stomping ground, and how odd it would be for Kurt to realize that he's actually acting like friends with Santana and Brittany. And then... things got weird.

Kurt's never been to Florida before. It's tragic, really; he's never even been to New York City, and if there's one place on earth that he knows he belongs, it's New York City. But here's never been there, or to Florida, or to anywhere outside of Ohio except his dad's family in Indiana. Indiana's not much different than Ohio. And they drive there in his dad's car, listening to Bruce Springsteen CDs against his protests while his dad keeps trying to force an open bag of Doritos on him.

Flying first class is a whole lot nicer than riding in his dad's car.

The Fort Lauderdale airport has a banner hanging across the luggage claim area. It reveals its words as they approach it on the escalators: WELCOME, NATIONAL CHEERLEADING COMPETITORS. It begins to sink in that this is a huge, massively big deal. The area is swarming with kids his age, some in uniforms of every color of the rainbow and some in their street clothes. But they're all cheerleaders. It's easy to tell. The girls act like they own the place and many have paired sleek, high ponytails with their (utterly tragic) hoodies or t-shirts. The boys swing bags off the carousel with athletic, capable arms, but then chat with the girls around them in an easy way you hardly ever see from jocks toting around those sorts of muscles.

He raises an appreciative eyebrow as they ride further down the escalator, every single Cheerio in their William McKinley High School colors.

Those are some really nice arms.

"Inhale," Santana whispers.

"What?"

She spits out each word like she's growling; turning reveals that she's saying the words through a harsh, clenched smile. The expression hardly deserves the word, really. She doesn't look like she's breathing, either. "Look perfect."

Kurt realizes the entire luggage claim area has gone silent and is watching their arrival.

He pulls in his stomach, throws back his shoulders, and wonders how long it'll be before he's allowed to breathe again. Santana rests an arm on his shoulder in a display of measured confidence. Her hand threads into his hair and jerks the back of his head down, forcing his chin upward. He gets the message and leaves it there when her hand retreats.

"Pleasure to see you all," Sue says to their waiting audience. Every student, every coach, every parent there is staring at them: five-time national champions, seeking championship number six at the expense of all the teams in the nation. "I'll enjoy defeating you. Again. Just like old times."

Most of Dad's talk about sports goes in one ear and out the other, but he's managed to pick up on the idea that the New York Yankees are this scary, evil empire that everyone hates because they win a lot, throw their weight around, and don't care who they crush beneath their cleats. (Kurt mostly paid attention to the complaints about the Yankees because they're from New York.) He sees that expression in the faces there: they're watching the empire approach, and Sue Sylvester is their commander.

Every single one of her Cheerios has struck a pose of absolute, rigid arrogance on the escalator. When they reach the bottom they step off smoothly, two at a time, and practically march into formation around their coach.

They stand there, daring the other teams to challenge them. All the other teams lose that game of chicken. Their coaches turn and encourage their students rather than approach Sue Sylvester and her stormtroopers in white and red.

"I feel evil," Kurt whispers to Santana.

Her cheeks are flushed and she's smiling genuinely, now. "I know. It's awesome."

Brittany nods so hard that the curls in her ponytail start bouncing.

"Come on, kids," Sue says when her assistants have helped them gather up their luggage. "Your limos are outside."

* * *

"We are in a limo!" Kurt says. His voice turns into a total squeak by the end and he doesn't care at all.

"I know," Santana repeats, her nose crinkling up in happiness. "It's awesome."

Brittany is fiddling with the fridge and starts passing out bottles of mineral water to the half-dozen Cheerios in the car. Kurt leans way, way over, landing in Santana's lap in the process, and boggles as he confirms: yes, he did see a whole bunch of liquor in that fridge. "They just leave it open like that?"

"Oh god," Santana laughs, and pushes him off her before she continues. "You're such an adorable little clueless newbie."

"We're teenagers! They actually just... give us alcohol?"

"Well sure," Brittany says, "since we know not to drink it until we win." She shrugs. "Then it's time to celebrate." She holds up a hand. "And the ride back to the airport is fun." Santana meets Brittany's hand with her own as both girls drag that last word out over several seconds.

Santana leans in and says, eyes sparkling, "You get treated differently at school on the days you wear your uniform, right?"

It's true. He does. Which is really completely absurd, as these uniforms aren't exactly going to be walking down a Milanese runway anytime soon.

"Why? Because the Cheerios are the celebrities of William McKinley. And when our world gets bigger, when we're competing on a national stage with TV cameras instead of performing in a pep rally? Our stars grow bigger, too. So long as we win, we get to do anything we want. Any. Thing."

Brittany sips her water. "I'm going to get a massage from puppies on my back."

Kurt really has no idea how to react to this.

It's like someone reached into his deepest, truest dreams, ripped them out into the real world, and then populated them with random asides from Brittany.

He sits the rest of the way to the hotel in awed silence, watching Florida pass through the windows of his limo.

They don't even have to share rooms. "All the other schools crammed their kids into the double queen rooms, two to a bed," Santana giggles. "That left all these king rooms open for the taking. It only made sense to reserve them for the Cheerios, right?"

"Wait." Kurt looks off in the distance, dreamily. "Two to a bed?"

"Rein it in, you could have wound up next to Casey, and I know from unfortunate personal experience that he lets his toenails get so freaking long that they can nick your ankle." Santana nods sagely as he gags. "Yeah, I knew that'd get through to you."

"This is weird," he abruptly decides as they head into the hotel lobby, rolling their suitcases behind them.

"What is?" Brittany asks, looking around and squinting at the ceiling.

"Me. Talking to the two of you. Like this."

"We're on the Cheerios together, we're in Glee together, we both nearly twisted an ankle learning that Gaga routine together." Santana shrugs. "And I was ready to beat down Karofsky and Azimio for you. As weird as it sounds, I guess we're friends."

"Yeah, Kurt." Brittany flings an arm around his shoulders. "You're like our girlfriend."

He sighs. Just because he's in touch with his feminine side doesn't mean he wants to be a girl, nor does he particularly appreciate being really thought of as one.

Brittany adds, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the Cheerios around them, "But with a penis."

"Geez, Brit, don't make the guy trip over his own feet right before we go on stage."

* * *

The last runthrough before competition. Kurt stands in front of the Cheerios, holding onto his glory note that lasts almost the entirety of the routine's final thirty seconds. Flawless.

Then Sue hits him in the gut with a basketball.

"No focus!" she snaps into her megaphone as he gasps and loses hold of the note, all the wind knocked out of him. "Do it again and keep those muscles tense!"

They restart the entire routine from the very first notes of It's All Coming Back to Me Now (Paris Club Cut). She yells at tiny imperfections in the pyramid holds, as small as a support's hands not being at the most telegenic angle. She even criticizes a girl for too many fly-aways in her ponytail right after she's been flipped four times in the air. "Do you want to win or not?" shouts Sue's amplified voice. "Because right now you're showing all the grace of manatees in heat!"

Kurt thinks of limos and television cameras and the complimentary gift basket waiting for him in his hotel room, courtesy of the Cheerios' sponsors. He tenses his muscles so hard that it hurts. The basketball rebounds when Sue pitches it at him again, a sneak attack right in the middle of The Power of Love (French Turbo Mix), and his note barely wavers.

He's singing a girl's song, but he's singing it in a national championship match on ESPN2. When he said that network name to Dad, Dad almost flipped. ESPN2. It's apparently a big deal to Dad. Way bigger than any worries about what goes on inside Lima, Ohio.

She watches him for a second after the strike and then starts yelling at Becky to pick it up a notch.

He wants to win.

At that moment he wants it more than anything.

* * *

He sprawls out in the middle of his king-sized bed with 1200 thread count sheets. (The hotel didn't mention that in the binder they left to inform him of his options for room service and local attractions, but it was one of the first things he checked.) Hanging neatly in the closet, between his favorite Marc Jacobs and McQueen pieces, is his uniform for tomorrow. The hotel offered to steam press it for him, but he doesn't trust anyone but himself to prepare for the big day.

The room has a nicer ironing setup than home, which is really saying something.

It's the end of 2009-2010 and he is on top of the world. He started the year in a dumpster and he's ending it in a palace. All he has to do is live on a diet of peeled vegetables, vitamin supplements, and sixteen bottles of water daily, plus put up with Sue Sylvester screaming abuse at him for two hour blocks. Hell, he's gone without meals after being exposed to accidental empty calories from slushies when the latest fashions were about to hit the racks. Bullies have screamed abuse at him for years. This is practically a vacation.

And the bullies don't give him gift certificates to get his car detailed. Nor do they call ahead to a hotel, ordering that a full array of Cheerios-themed goods should be waiting for their arrival: workout gear, beach towel, embroidered terrycloth spa-quality robe.

That robe's what he's wearing now, after a shower to relax before the big day. It was a steam shower. Twenty-three distinct vents and two multidirectional showerheads.

God, he really has to install one of those at home.

It's amazing. Everyone expects them to win. Everyone expects him to win. The closest he's ever gotten to that is in New Directions, and even then they were the scrappy underdogs and Mr. Schue was practically Whoopi Goldberg teaching a bunch of inner city kids how to sing. They had to manufacture their own confidence because no one else would do it for them. Everyone in the whole world has confidence in him right now.

Something tugs at his mind, although he's not sure what it means.

When the knock comes at his door, at first he ignores it. He's too busy grinning at the ceiling like an enormously happy lunatic. But the knock is insistent and eventually he gets up, padding there in his bare feet.

Santana and Brittany push past him into the room, both with damp hair and wearing identical bathrobes. The sight of his Gleemates makes him, of all things, suddenly sad. He knows what his earlier thoughts mean. "Girls," Kurt says. "I'm glad you stopped by."

Santana raises an eyebrow.

He sighs and walks to the bed, sitting. "Everyone expects us to win, right?"

She draws back. "You're not getting cold feet, are you? Because if there is any person on the squad who is not allowed to choke tomorrow, it's you."

"No! No, I'm fine." He really considers the robe he's in and thumbs the Cheerios crest on the collar. "But we're the favorites, right?

"So much that the Vegas bookies actually have people losing money by betting on us, we're such a sure deal. I didn't even know you could make 1:10 odds." Santana puts her hands on her hips and shrugs.

"We've got it in the bag," Brittany says. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried about the Cheerios," he admits. "We're the evil empire. But Vocal Adrenaline is the evil empire of show choirs. Do they feel just as confident as we do, right now?" He thinks back to the airport, unhappy. "Are we one of those teams looking up from the luggage carousels?"

"Wow," Brittany says into the silence. "Way to bring down our mood."

Santana shifts uncomfortably. "Underdogs take stuff all the time, right? Miracle on Ice, right?"

He has no idea what that is.

"...Fiesta Bowl, Broncos and Sooners?"

And that sentence is clearly just a random collection of words. "So you're saying you expect some plucky little team to take the Cheerios' victory away, then? Because I don't think we can argue for both the status quo and the unexpected simultaneously."

Regrouping, Santana says, "Look. We're winners. We are winners, and we win _hard_, and if we have to drag the rest of Glee onto the championship stand by their hair, kicking and screaming while they deal with all their personal crap?" Santana nods crisply. "We will. Because if you're a Cheerio, you're a winner. No matter what team you're on at the moment."

"I... don't think show choirs actually use championship stands, but point taken." He'll take it. He'll take it. He needs to think about the Cheerios until this is over, he can't be caught up in Glee. Even if putting it that way makes him feel totally guilty.

There's an awkward moment. "So, what's standard procedure before the big day?" Kurt asks, because there does seem to be an expected course of behavior that the girls are familiar with. Perhaps they're supposed to perform some teambuilding exercise, or engage in some painful binge/purge behavior to clear their bodies before the big match. He'd actually expect the latter out of Sue Sylvester.

"Are you kidding? It's a cheerleading trip." Santana raises her eyebrows meaningfully. "This entire floor is fucking right now."

"What?" he stammers. That was not the team-building he had in mind.

"First class flight, last round of training, big orgy, win Nationals, get drunk, make out again in the limos, sing 'We are the Champions' on repeat until our plane lands in Columbus." Santana rolls her eyes. "That's just how it works, newbie. It's what you get when you throw together a plane full of hot school celebrities who spend all day grabbing each other and doing crotch lifts."

His eyes open very wide. Perhaps they should suggest something like that for any Glee trips. Assuming they ever manage to go anywhere further than the VA Hall, of course. Wait. Don't think about Glee. Kurt regains his focus and clears his throat. "Oh." He blushes way too easily. It comes from being so freaking pale; he's like some big translucent blush machine. For all he knows he's the only virgin on the Cheerios and he really doesn't know if he's down with the idea of losing it to whatever guy on the squad gives him bedroom eyes first. But Santana and Brittany are veterans at this whole deal, and he doesn't want to seem hopelessly lame, so he lies and says, "Wow, too bad you didn't let me know before everyone went back to their rooms." He clears his throat. "Yeah, could have picked someone up."

Brittany stares at him. "Your voice sounds really weird when you try to make it go all low like that."

"That's why we came by, actually." Santana grins. "Brittany and I have a perfect record."

"Of... what?"

They lean in, their foreheads touching. "Of landing guys."

Everything goes slow and weird, like it's an important moment in a movie. Kurt tilts his head to the side, trying to hear her better. "Come again?"

"That's the idea."

He blanches. "You're not serious."

"I thought you were gay," Brittany begins.

"I am!" he insists. Their terrycloth robes are suddenly a lot less "team spirit" and a whole lot "oh no, they're probably not wearing underwear."

"...But then we made out and stuff." And she hasn't really picked up on what that had all been about, because she is Brittany. Great.

"Look, Hummel," Santana says, crawling on the bed. He pulls his legs up under him. "We know you're super glitter fabulous. But you made out with Brit. That's a crack in the armor. And we want to see if we can pry it open. " Brittany starts crawling toward him, too. Bent over like that, their cleavage is coming straight at him. "Cheerios win."

By far, this has to be the weirdest moment of his life. "Not interested."

"We just want to give it a shot." Santana smiles. "Okay? We think you're like... at least 99% gay, If we can just hit that one percent, then we'll know we've got it more than we ever, ever dreamed."

This just figures. Thrown into a situation where random hookups were apparently the norm, and he's somehow landed in the middle of the fantasy of every _hetero_ guy he knows. Maybe he'll wake up tomorrow morning to discover that his gift basket of clothing vouchers and hair product has been replaced with NASCAR season tickets. "If you want to watch TV or something, I'm fine with that," he says, because he doesn't want to summarily dismiss this incredibly bizarre new friendship, "but I honestly, truly am not interested in doing... anything with you two. Sorry if that's an ego blow."

Brittany looks at him like he's dumb, which has to be one of the more cutting insults he's received that week. "Well we don't start with you, you know."

And then Brittany tugs one side of Santana's robe open, slowly licks her way to her nipple, and bites it.

Kurt's mouth drops open in disbelief and he looks away. _Oh my God,_ his mind hisses at him. This is so far past weird. He inches further up the bed, toward the pillows, while they really start to get into it. Girl nipples are just strange and big, he can't help thinking as he sneaks wary glances at the foot of his bed. And oh, there the robes go entirely. Yep. No underwear. They keep arching in weird ways, he sees in his peripheral vision, and soon Kurt realizes that every move they make isn't about each other, but about him.

He puts a hand over his eyes. "If you put on your robes again and walk out, we can just pretend this never happened! That sounds like the best idea I've heard in a oh dear God please get your hand out from there."

Brittany moans and bucks against Santana, who's hissing that she should "take it" and "yeah you like that" and all these ridiculous lines that Kurt has to believe they got off some cutrate porn. The moves they use on the boys at school appear to have all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the head.

It's like something from a video in biology class. About sea creatures. There are _noises_ and girl sex is just incredibly... wet and slippery, and they're making more noises and the only way to keep from absolutely losing his mind is by frantically reviewing his moves for tomorrow. But eventually he can't focus any more and has to once again return to the room. So there they are, he thinks somewhat hysterically: him curled up on top of the pillows, clutching a robe around himself, while Brittany and Santana roll around naked in a tangled pile of limbs.

Maybe he's not down for adding this to Glee, after all.

Soon the girls are gasping out their finale. For a long, bizarre moment they lay slack on the bed, beaded with sweat. And then Brittany actually sits up, holds out her hands, and says "Ta da!" Raising her arms like that lifts her breasts higher on her chest.

Kurt stares at them both with slack-jawed horror.

"Shit," Santana mourns, still pouting. She's still naked, too. "Are you sure we didn't...?" She reaches for the front flap of his robe.

He bats her hand away. "Please put your clothes back on."

Santana sits back, pouting. She is still naked. Why is she still naked? "Damn. I really thought I had it."

"I can assure you," he tells the headboard, "it was very enthusiastic, and quite... acrobatic, and I'm sure most boys at school would lose their minds seeing it. I mean, in a different way than you nearly made me lose my mind just now." He hisses out the last bit.

Brittany actually crawls up next to him. Oh God, who knew breasts swung like that when girls were naked? "We just normally make out," she shrugs. "And it's enough." Then she actually flops down, her arm against his. "Okay, now we can watch some TV if you want."

He can't take it anymore. "Santana," Kurt calls, voice even higher than usual. "Could you please throw me her robe?" She does and he drapes it over Brittany like a blanket. Mistake, he soon realizes; now she's comfortable. "And would you mind?"

With a wry smirk on her face, Santana shrugs back into her robe. Then, unfortunately, she takes the spot on his other side, retrieves a cell phone from her pocket, and takes a picture of the three of them curled up on the bed in disheveled bathrobes. It's quick, too. Kurt doesn't even have time to react until she's putting it away.

"Santana!"

"Just wanted it on record that you're the first guy in Glee to get two girls at once." She grins wickedly at him. "So to speak. I'll keep that in reserve in case we ever need to destroy Puck's ego."

He wants to protest that Puck's ego might be destroyed, but so would Kurt's _face._ Then he actually pictures the moment and can't help but smile lopsidedly. Puck is less likely to be angry than so bewildered that he walks out in search of the Twilight Zone door, muttering in confusion about what happened to his gun show.

Retrieving the remote, Santana flicks through the channels and is soon on the pay stations. Oh, _seriously?_ They don't block the porn to minors' rooms, either? "Hey, Kurt," she giggles as she lands on a listing with a description that's the first intriguing thing he's seen that night. "If I pay for that, will it still count as turning you on? I'd like to keep my record."

"No!" he says, face red, but he's laughing now.

Brittany's passed out against him, he realizes, but not before slinging her arm across his chest.

"She likes to cuddle after sex," Santana explains.

"And she can't cuddle _you_?"

"She's next to you, not my fault."

"But you two climbed in, I didn't ask!"

She puts a finger against his lips. "You are going to be so much fun by this time next year, believe me. You seriously need to be corrupted."

Kurt can't exactly get away from their big, comfortable pile on the bed without disturbing Brittany, so he sighs and gives in as Santana starts flipping through more channels. "I feel corrupted enough, thank you. I have a very specific evening routine and this is most certainly _not_ it."

"_Vive la différence,_" Santana shrugs, and adjusts her hair.

Brittany smacks her lips wetly, mumbling something about ducks.

And Kurt decides to just go with it. "_Vive la différence,_" he says helplessly as he begins to critique the fashion choices on _Gossip Girl_ with Santana Lopez.


End file.
